What I want now feels distinctly out of the ordinary. It’s hard to explain, even to myself. The mere thought of it has me trembling inside, my hole growing slick and my dick turning to steel. I’ve wrestled with it this way and that, to try to understand how and why this desire has solidified in me.
I’m honestly not sure how to explain it, other than to say: I want what I want. My mind and my body long for it. Require it, even. A seed was planted during my heat, and it’s taken root. There’s something about what I want and how I want it that simply hits right. Feels right.
The thought of saying it aloud wakes a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my belly though. It makes me unbearably nervous, even though I know it’s something lots of omegaswant. I feel a little frisson of shame when I think about it for too long. A little humiliation that makes my face hot.
At the same time, the gentle thrum of desire won’t leave me.
It’s been a long day of trying not to say the words that are echoing through me. A long afternoon. An even longer evening. I’m tired and worn down.
Our innocent bedtime routine has become a form of torment. Brushing my teeth while Branson brushes his next to me is a minefield now. A buffet of possibilities that I’m not sure I can trust myself to be around without blurting out what I want and making a massive fool of myself.
I can’t take my eyes off Branson anymore. I’ve tried, and I can’t. He’s larger than life and twice as attractive. Feeling his gaze on my back as I shower, and being unable to peel mine off him, has become excruciating.
He’s under the spout now. Naked everywhere. His hands are in his hair, fingers parted as he cards them through his wet locks. Water spills down his shoulders, forming rapids as it courses over bunched muscle. Thick muscle. Hot, sexy alpha muscle.
God, Branson’s attractive. And he’s only getting hotter the more I’m around him.
I’ve been around him for days. Days, and days, and days.
I have a towel around my waist, and I’m standing with my back against the wall as he rinses the shampoo from his hair. I’ve already showered, so my hair is wet too. My body is warm, skin scuffed and sensitized from drying myself.
I’m clean, and I smell good.
I feel good too.
I feel like I exist for one thing. One person.
“You okay, Lucy?” asks Branson from behind a froth of soap bubbles.
“Mm-hmm,” I reply, not trusting myself to say more.
He gets out of the shower after what feels like an hour, but is probably only a few minutes, and takes the towel I hand him with a murmur of thanks. Instead of wrapping it around himself like a merciful man, he takes it in both hands, drops his head into it, and rubs his hair roughly. His abs tense from the motion, and his dick sways heavily from side to side.
A pool of saliva forms under my tongue.
When he emerges from under the towel, his hair is standing in every direction. He takes a half-step toward me and shakes his head playfully. Tiny droplets of water fly into the air and land on my face, and honestly, I never realized just how attractive this kind of tomfoolery could be.
But I do now.
A fresh wave of want washes over me. Thick and hot. Hefty enough to suffocate the last of my restraint.
I watch quietly as he dries himself. I’m going to do it. I can tell. I can tell, and I don’t mind anymore. I want my mate to know what I want.
My heart pounds like a drum, but my mind is calm from the peace that comes with being made up. I wait until Branson is dry. Until he moves toward the sink.
Then I intercept him.
I step in front of him, standing directly in front of the sink with my back to him. He pauses, brow quirking as though he doesn’t understand what’s happening.
I catch his eye in the mirror and the bond sizzles.
I hold his gaze, not looking away as he searches the rest of my face for an inkling, a clue to what I’m doing. When his eyes find mine again, I untuck the towel from my waist and let it drop to the floor.
There’s a sharp intake of breath. His.
A slow, satisfied exhale. Mine.
I take a second, and another, to collect myself. To consider whether I can do this. Whether I can say the words that are dancing over my lips and tongue.
